The Lost Wallet
He hit the long escalator like the jib of a crane rising 100 feet into the air beneath the cave that was Marylebone station and kept walking as the stairs formed under his feet and bore him upward. Arms rolling by sides like balancing booms rucksack held hanging on one shoulder like an easy pendulum to counter his forward pitch and the station forming around him as he rose. He imagined mountains were being moved beneath his feet at his behest as he climbed, like the beginning of the earth – like he was god. Or that he was being fired to the surface by a rush of larva after months underground. The sudden muscular effort of his ascent sent shockwaves of pain spreading warm up his legs and bathed him with aliveness and joy at his own prowess. “53 and still running up the stairs” - he boasted internally. the dry racket of his heart started to subside as he left behind those content to simply be carried aloft - “like an illustration of evolution” he thought dismissively “the strong, the independent, the innovators and creators rising high above the herd. Carpe diem.”
As he reached the top he simultaneously and fluently reached for his wallet to extract his card ready to purchase his ticket and at the same time glanced at his watch and noted with satisfaction that he was early. He reached effortlessly for his tube ticket in his top pocket as he approached the barrier and in a bullfighters over arm flourish delivered the ticket with pinpoint accuracy into the slot of the dull grey metal gleam of the turnstile...
And even as he did so he knew he was lost as synapses fired and the various expressions of energy required to transmute thought into action and stop the insertion of the ticket flared too late into the red - the decision following on a nanosecond behind the realisation that he’d left his wallet on the table at home. ( he could see it clearly like a biblical primal scene heavy with meaning and wrapped in terror like the Fall or the forced eviction from Eden) but the impulse to stop and save the ticket may as well have been delivered from the bridge of the Titanic or the Torrey Canyon for all the immediate difference it made to the status quo of the body beneath it that now crashed through the barrier for an infinitesimal moment bereft of reason - outside of time almost and discernible only to the gods of mockery who accompany us always and warm their hands on a bit of hubris, half turning in despair as the electronic gates closed behind it with a one way blazing cherubim finality then looking briefly towards the uniformed guardian of the gates for empathy or sympathy or at least a non-hostile witness to his distress but seeing only the stern badge of office and a rebuke in waiting.
He was trapped, skint. All his best laid schemes his clothes organised the night before his money measured for the tube his shave his bath his story, was to no avail. He’d been cruelly delivered by his own pride into the wilderness of central London and faced a long trek home. his stock was on a par with all those beseeching faces and imploring hands and heartfelt tales of buses missed and lost fares and robbed travellers and “for the sake of 50 pee” and “I’m trying to get to Heathrow… I've got to meet my wife… if I can get to Neasden everything will be ok… my child is left in play school… and I need to get to eat or I’ll die I need 20p to sleep indoors “– all those he had waved aside with such contempt impatience and disbelief came sweeping into his consciousness to circle in his mind and join with his previously ‘mentioned in despatches’ and other honours he’d bestowed upon himself and self appointed became self inflicted as all his previous high opinions miraculously reversed and formed a great mob of condemnation within the circus tent of his imagination.
Now he was nothing. Already the inner sense of despair was beginning to sweep outwards through his being and subtly alter everything. His whole appearance where before radiated confidence and authority now neediness and despair and an unmistakable odour of guilt. Yes, he was responsible – he deserved this -he wasn’t to be trusted. Even his clothes his spray way jacket and his Tommy Hilfiger brown toff looking cords suddenly reminded him that they’d come via TK Maxx at greatly reduced price. the jacket which he'd previously romanticised and proudly informed all who would listen as being all over the world now seemed simply shabby, the cords not quite Daks more like cheap mean thin shell suit bottoms and his voice - the booming Liverpool accent which he’d learned to project with such great effect over the years now seemed merely the loud braying of the bully flip sided by a Liverpool whine.
I can’t get back I can’t go forward I’m lost I can’t even get a coffee - he thought. As he stood there out of role his new found lostness began to radiate a circle of anxiety causing former fellow passengers to circumnavigate this invisible zone of discomfort while studiously avoiding eye contact. He seemed paralysed felt the same disdainful energy he’d dispensed to others flooding in from all sides – even a beggar looked at him aggressively his deference cast off like an unneeded coat – sensing with the heightened intuition of the despised one more vulnerable than himself.
Maybe they were all telling the truth - he exclaimed to no-one in particular - maybe they where all like me, simply victims of unfortunate circumstance whom through a moments inattention or pure bad luck had stepped out of their world and were forever prevented from returning simply for the non-possession of £1. The prospect was too horrible to contemplate. As he looked around the once familiar world grew steadily more hostile – the amt coffee stand vaqueros who’d served him and greeted him like an old friend returning safely each morning for the last two years today cast only stony glances and glanced protectively at their croissants and muffins as he meandered near. He’d now been in the station just over 20 minutes the period between trains and for all intents and purposes he might as well have been on the moon. He recognised nothing not even himself. 20 minutes he exclaimed so that’s all it takes I’ve had my 20 minutes step outside for 20 minutes and you can never go back. He remembered a client who’d hailed him on Ladbroke grove a former addict who’d been a great success in the prison where he d worked because he’d got clean got parole and left gaol to go to college to train as a counsellor a fine figure of a man with everyone’s good wishes and a great future. Now almost unrecognisable a wretched figure in the shadows of the pavement. “Using once” – he murmured-“was easy and seemed such a small step at the time – but when I tried to go back the small step had become an unclimeable cliff”.
He wondered if his wife would miss him if anyone would look for him – then remembered he’d disappeared off before when he had an affair and most of the energy of loss and goodwill had been more than expended then. No, they’d pine for a bit then almost against their consciences their sense of duty start to breathe in a new freedom with his passing realise how much space he’d taken up how trapped they’d all felt by his bullying opinions and intolerance passed off as scientific fact. No he said resignedly they’ll move on better without me I’ve been little more than a burden to them.
He felt a gentle dawning of a new comprehension – an understanding of a humanity joined in a common bond of decency and shared suffering. I am your brother you are all connected to me – I love you all he muttered and began to root through his belongings in order to distribute them among the astonished onlookers. At this precise moment poised on the shore of a whole new world an insistent whispering realisation finally made itself heard over the clamour of enlightenment – he’d found his wallet. Wonderingly he drew his hand out of the inside pocket of his jacket he’d earlier overlooked. There it was the squat black leather square in which resided his whole former identity. For a moment he hesitated as he contemplated its meaning almost stretched out his hand to offer it to a passer by – then drawing himself up to his full height and imbued with a new sense of purpose he turned smartly on his heel and strode confidently to the row of cash machines entered his card and withdrew £50.
As he turned away folding the money flamboyantly into his trouser pocket a haggard wraith accosted him “you couldn’t spare any change could you sir I haven’t eaten for…” Fuck off he said triumphantly and buying his return he noted the imminence of the next departure to his place of work and glowing from the familiar deferential warm greeting from the counter clerk headed for the coffee counter where the staff beamed and practically scalded themselves in order to serve him.
For a fleeting shadowy moment he thought of scowling at them but genuinely puzzled as to the origin of such churlishness he rested in his new found magnanimity and beaming expansively just let his fingers rest for a thousandth of a second longer than was absolutely necessary on the south American girls hand whilst his eyes in sympathy carried out an unblinking and professional reconnaissance of her breasts. Flushed with the miracle of money the unambivalent unfairness of it he rudely recovered a Metro newspaper from under the nose of the reaching muffled slowcoach then barged an ugly blonde scruff dyed probably retail woman with a CSE in business and one in kitchen hygiene and health and safety around meat aside from the barrier with great satisfaction recalling she’d once ignored him when he’d attempted conversation on the train and subjected an appalled onlooker who seemed to be toying with the idea of taking the drab’s part to a challenging stare which left no doubt our hero was willing to fight there and then. Leaving them in his wake like an eddy of crisp packets he strode the length of the train staring into the compartments till he found as many seats as possible as far as possible from every other bastard of every other hue and persuasion on the fucking train. Marking out as much territory as possible with his coffee and his bag and his free newspaper and extracting his mobile phone and placing it prominently on the little table set in the bulwark below the window plus pen and moleskin notebook he placed both muddy feet up on the seat opposite and sat there in a warm glow of Lebensraum smiling benevolently at the passengers disembarking from the incoming train and subjecting the bodies of the hurrying women to an unblinking scrutiny laughing as they tried to pull their coats closed as he ogled them occasionally breaking off to throw a cold stare of pure aggression at some fucker who’d had the temerity to look at him with the merest suggestion of disapproval. Yes - he remarked emphatically, gratefully with his hand on his heart (now insulated by his wallet) as his own train began to pull away from the platform - Life is sweet.
END
GROWING UP IN ONE EASY LESSON
He woke in a fear of life slipping away while he watched and did nothing from the bitter sidelines should have took action 40 years ago he said to himself but what about now? then the terrible desperate weight of inertia settling on his shoulders like a blanket of lead choking off all aspirations a feeling of hopelessness and futility ‘I am fucking useless’ - he thought ‘I’m like a little girl’ - and a match was struck somewhere and a man leaned forward somewhere and said hang on what does that mean? What does that mean useless like a little girl? He heard his fathers voice the sneering contempt the caricatured face and realised he’d mistaken this image for himself. he was not – this was no reflection of - no mirror image of himself; this was solely his fathers, this weak infantilised image – but the man who leaned forward was something entirely different, he was a man and wanted men’s answers and the boy realised it was himself, embraced the little girl refused to continue the chain of humiliation and torture realised he had the power to forgive and let go move on and be here all the old miss Haversham crap could stay in the room. What does that mean - useless like a little girl? But I feel like a man estranged from the part of myself that paradoxically is the toughest ingredient of all, the little girl. I embrace the little girl, father, and leave you behind in the dusty dark
END
THE FIGHT
As he ran through the park he became aware of shouting and barking a lanky haired old foe biker loudmouth was arguing with a woman who was pleading for help as he ran towards them the guy kicked her dog in the face that was locked in combat with his scruffy hybrid mongrel ingrate like himself. No she cried in horror as he booted her little dog in the face. shut up! - He sneered. Too much for the running man. Oy - he cried. Fuckoff said tall bikerman contemptuously from a past when our hero was always afraid and put upon. no more though, not now, then the fierce boy within rose through the limbs of the man like larva rushing up the chimneys and vents of a volcano broke into an attacking lunging gallop and then -fuckoff? Fuck off you say? Eh eh eh!
Headlocked and thrown all in one rage driven fluent moment the biker bully sprawled onto the black tarmac like a fucking falling maypole octopoid arms and legs going everywhere in sprawling Catherine wheel spreading and falling.
What happened there? He thought. One minute he was running carrying his cauldron of anger well hidden concealed beneath his skin next he’s standing still over an old-time amphetamine giant a Southport rocker and him a little boy disguised as a man but the anger and energy that brought him here is GONE LIKE IT NEVER WAS and he is left in the vacuum hissing with the inrush of fear as the man begins to rise. I have awakened a sleeping giant he thinks trembling scolding himself my angers gone spent like some easy currency but his is just beginning “stay down !” but the man ignored him and continued to clamber to his feet.
END
As he reached the top he simultaneously and fluently reached for his wallet to extract his card ready to purchase his ticket and at the same time glanced at his watch and noted with satisfaction that he was early. He reached effortlessly for his tube ticket in his top pocket as he approached the barrier and in a bullfighters over arm flourish delivered the ticket with pinpoint accuracy into the slot of the dull grey metal gleam of the turnstile...
And even as he did so he knew he was lost as synapses fired and the various expressions of energy required to transmute thought into action and stop the insertion of the ticket flared too late into the red - the decision following on a nanosecond behind the realisation that he’d left his wallet on the table at home. ( he could see it clearly like a biblical primal scene heavy with meaning and wrapped in terror like the Fall or the forced eviction from Eden) but the impulse to stop and save the ticket may as well have been delivered from the bridge of the Titanic or the Torrey Canyon for all the immediate difference it made to the status quo of the body beneath it that now crashed through the barrier for an infinitesimal moment bereft of reason - outside of time almost and discernible only to the gods of mockery who accompany us always and warm their hands on a bit of hubris, half turning in despair as the electronic gates closed behind it with a one way blazing cherubim finality then looking briefly towards the uniformed guardian of the gates for empathy or sympathy or at least a non-hostile witness to his distress but seeing only the stern badge of office and a rebuke in waiting.
He was trapped, skint. All his best laid schemes his clothes organised the night before his money measured for the tube his shave his bath his story, was to no avail. He’d been cruelly delivered by his own pride into the wilderness of central London and faced a long trek home. his stock was on a par with all those beseeching faces and imploring hands and heartfelt tales of buses missed and lost fares and robbed travellers and “for the sake of 50 pee” and “I’m trying to get to Heathrow… I've got to meet my wife… if I can get to Neasden everything will be ok… my child is left in play school… and I need to get to eat or I’ll die I need 20p to sleep indoors “– all those he had waved aside with such contempt impatience and disbelief came sweeping into his consciousness to circle in his mind and join with his previously ‘mentioned in despatches’ and other honours he’d bestowed upon himself and self appointed became self inflicted as all his previous high opinions miraculously reversed and formed a great mob of condemnation within the circus tent of his imagination.
Now he was nothing. Already the inner sense of despair was beginning to sweep outwards through his being and subtly alter everything. His whole appearance where before radiated confidence and authority now neediness and despair and an unmistakable odour of guilt. Yes, he was responsible – he deserved this -he wasn’t to be trusted. Even his clothes his spray way jacket and his Tommy Hilfiger brown toff looking cords suddenly reminded him that they’d come via TK Maxx at greatly reduced price. the jacket which he'd previously romanticised and proudly informed all who would listen as being all over the world now seemed simply shabby, the cords not quite Daks more like cheap mean thin shell suit bottoms and his voice - the booming Liverpool accent which he’d learned to project with such great effect over the years now seemed merely the loud braying of the bully flip sided by a Liverpool whine.
I can’t get back I can’t go forward I’m lost I can’t even get a coffee - he thought. As he stood there out of role his new found lostness began to radiate a circle of anxiety causing former fellow passengers to circumnavigate this invisible zone of discomfort while studiously avoiding eye contact. He seemed paralysed felt the same disdainful energy he’d dispensed to others flooding in from all sides – even a beggar looked at him aggressively his deference cast off like an unneeded coat – sensing with the heightened intuition of the despised one more vulnerable than himself.
Maybe they were all telling the truth - he exclaimed to no-one in particular - maybe they where all like me, simply victims of unfortunate circumstance whom through a moments inattention or pure bad luck had stepped out of their world and were forever prevented from returning simply for the non-possession of £1. The prospect was too horrible to contemplate. As he looked around the once familiar world grew steadily more hostile – the amt coffee stand vaqueros who’d served him and greeted him like an old friend returning safely each morning for the last two years today cast only stony glances and glanced protectively at their croissants and muffins as he meandered near. He’d now been in the station just over 20 minutes the period between trains and for all intents and purposes he might as well have been on the moon. He recognised nothing not even himself. 20 minutes he exclaimed so that’s all it takes I’ve had my 20 minutes step outside for 20 minutes and you can never go back. He remembered a client who’d hailed him on Ladbroke grove a former addict who’d been a great success in the prison where he d worked because he’d got clean got parole and left gaol to go to college to train as a counsellor a fine figure of a man with everyone’s good wishes and a great future. Now almost unrecognisable a wretched figure in the shadows of the pavement. “Using once” – he murmured-“was easy and seemed such a small step at the time – but when I tried to go back the small step had become an unclimeable cliff”.
He wondered if his wife would miss him if anyone would look for him – then remembered he’d disappeared off before when he had an affair and most of the energy of loss and goodwill had been more than expended then. No, they’d pine for a bit then almost against their consciences their sense of duty start to breathe in a new freedom with his passing realise how much space he’d taken up how trapped they’d all felt by his bullying opinions and intolerance passed off as scientific fact. No he said resignedly they’ll move on better without me I’ve been little more than a burden to them.
He felt a gentle dawning of a new comprehension – an understanding of a humanity joined in a common bond of decency and shared suffering. I am your brother you are all connected to me – I love you all he muttered and began to root through his belongings in order to distribute them among the astonished onlookers. At this precise moment poised on the shore of a whole new world an insistent whispering realisation finally made itself heard over the clamour of enlightenment – he’d found his wallet. Wonderingly he drew his hand out of the inside pocket of his jacket he’d earlier overlooked. There it was the squat black leather square in which resided his whole former identity. For a moment he hesitated as he contemplated its meaning almost stretched out his hand to offer it to a passer by – then drawing himself up to his full height and imbued with a new sense of purpose he turned smartly on his heel and strode confidently to the row of cash machines entered his card and withdrew £50.
As he turned away folding the money flamboyantly into his trouser pocket a haggard wraith accosted him “you couldn’t spare any change could you sir I haven’t eaten for…” Fuck off he said triumphantly and buying his return he noted the imminence of the next departure to his place of work and glowing from the familiar deferential warm greeting from the counter clerk headed for the coffee counter where the staff beamed and practically scalded themselves in order to serve him.
For a fleeting shadowy moment he thought of scowling at them but genuinely puzzled as to the origin of such churlishness he rested in his new found magnanimity and beaming expansively just let his fingers rest for a thousandth of a second longer than was absolutely necessary on the south American girls hand whilst his eyes in sympathy carried out an unblinking and professional reconnaissance of her breasts. Flushed with the miracle of money the unambivalent unfairness of it he rudely recovered a Metro newspaper from under the nose of the reaching muffled slowcoach then barged an ugly blonde scruff dyed probably retail woman with a CSE in business and one in kitchen hygiene and health and safety around meat aside from the barrier with great satisfaction recalling she’d once ignored him when he’d attempted conversation on the train and subjected an appalled onlooker who seemed to be toying with the idea of taking the drab’s part to a challenging stare which left no doubt our hero was willing to fight there and then. Leaving them in his wake like an eddy of crisp packets he strode the length of the train staring into the compartments till he found as many seats as possible as far as possible from every other bastard of every other hue and persuasion on the fucking train. Marking out as much territory as possible with his coffee and his bag and his free newspaper and extracting his mobile phone and placing it prominently on the little table set in the bulwark below the window plus pen and moleskin notebook he placed both muddy feet up on the seat opposite and sat there in a warm glow of Lebensraum smiling benevolently at the passengers disembarking from the incoming train and subjecting the bodies of the hurrying women to an unblinking scrutiny laughing as they tried to pull their coats closed as he ogled them occasionally breaking off to throw a cold stare of pure aggression at some fucker who’d had the temerity to look at him with the merest suggestion of disapproval. Yes - he remarked emphatically, gratefully with his hand on his heart (now insulated by his wallet) as his own train began to pull away from the platform - Life is sweet.
END
GROWING UP IN ONE EASY LESSON
He woke in a fear of life slipping away while he watched and did nothing from the bitter sidelines should have took action 40 years ago he said to himself but what about now? then the terrible desperate weight of inertia settling on his shoulders like a blanket of lead choking off all aspirations a feeling of hopelessness and futility ‘I am fucking useless’ - he thought ‘I’m like a little girl’ - and a match was struck somewhere and a man leaned forward somewhere and said hang on what does that mean? What does that mean useless like a little girl? He heard his fathers voice the sneering contempt the caricatured face and realised he’d mistaken this image for himself. he was not – this was no reflection of - no mirror image of himself; this was solely his fathers, this weak infantilised image – but the man who leaned forward was something entirely different, he was a man and wanted men’s answers and the boy realised it was himself, embraced the little girl refused to continue the chain of humiliation and torture realised he had the power to forgive and let go move on and be here all the old miss Haversham crap could stay in the room. What does that mean - useless like a little girl? But I feel like a man estranged from the part of myself that paradoxically is the toughest ingredient of all, the little girl. I embrace the little girl, father, and leave you behind in the dusty dark
END
THE FIGHT
As he ran through the park he became aware of shouting and barking a lanky haired old foe biker loudmouth was arguing with a woman who was pleading for help as he ran towards them the guy kicked her dog in the face that was locked in combat with his scruffy hybrid mongrel ingrate like himself. No she cried in horror as he booted her little dog in the face. shut up! - He sneered. Too much for the running man. Oy - he cried. Fuckoff said tall bikerman contemptuously from a past when our hero was always afraid and put upon. no more though, not now, then the fierce boy within rose through the limbs of the man like larva rushing up the chimneys and vents of a volcano broke into an attacking lunging gallop and then -fuckoff? Fuck off you say? Eh eh eh!
Headlocked and thrown all in one rage driven fluent moment the biker bully sprawled onto the black tarmac like a fucking falling maypole octopoid arms and legs going everywhere in sprawling Catherine wheel spreading and falling.
What happened there? He thought. One minute he was running carrying his cauldron of anger well hidden concealed beneath his skin next he’s standing still over an old-time amphetamine giant a Southport rocker and him a little boy disguised as a man but the anger and energy that brought him here is GONE LIKE IT NEVER WAS and he is left in the vacuum hissing with the inrush of fear as the man begins to rise. I have awakened a sleeping giant he thinks trembling scolding himself my angers gone spent like some easy currency but his is just beginning “stay down !” but the man ignored him and continued to clamber to his feet.
END
posted by Nick Mercer at
10:32 pm
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